


Death and Her Commander

by acaelousqueadcentrum



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 12:11:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5927890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acaelousqueadcentrum/pseuds/acaelousqueadcentrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A "Ye Who Enter Here" fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death and Her Commander

[[Mix](http://8tracks.com/onetown/death-and-her-commander)]

You bathe after Mount Weather, and the water runs red as you run the rough brush over your skin, washing away the sweat and the dirt and the scent of horses and leather and death. **  
**

The feeling of betrayal, though, no amount of water can wash that away. It sinks into your pores and your bones. And you feel it in the night, in the wet air just before a rain, in the breaths in-between your words.

It’s a secret grief that you bear, that you carry just between your shoulder blades, behind your heart. It’s knowing that you couldn’t have done any different, and still wishing you could have.

_Wanheda._

The word spreads through your people.

A whisper. A ghost. A legend.

And you know--you know before you see her face etched out in charcoal on a freshly tanned skin.

Clarke.

Wanheda.

Only Clarke could cheat death so well, only Clarke could face death and come out wearing its dark, heavy crown.

_Bring her to me_ , you instruct your scouts, forcing your features into that cool mask of indifference you’ve worn for so long. Sometimes you forget--there are parts of you over which Heda has no power.

_Bring her to me_ , you tell them again, _alive. And unharmed._

She doesn’t deserve any more hurt, not from you.

Not after you walked away, her heart’s blood wet on your shaking hands.

And then you wait.

For word. For their return.

For Clarke.

Wanheda.

~ * ~

There is rage in her, such a terrible rage.

Curling and bunching in her strong, sleek muscles. A predator, just waiting to pounce.

She’s spitting and she’s straining and you’re quite sure that if you had her released, if you ordered your guards to release their hold and remove themselves from your presence, she would be on you before the door closed.

She would be at your throat, your blood dripping down her snarled lips and her strong jaw.

She would eat your heart if she could, and there’s a part of you that would let her. That would watch her and feel the pleasure of having created something so powerful, so deadly.

They call her an animal. They call her a beast. Inhuman. A monster.

It’s the look in her eyes, the darkness there.  

But you know better.

If anything, she’s more human than the rest of you.

No animal’s eyes have ever held that much grief, that much hate.

Clarke’s howls and screams echo down the hallway as the guards drag her away, as you stand and look out over the expanse of your people below.

Everywhere you look, every one of them you see down in the heart of your city, your great Polis--another sliver of Clarke’s soul.

~ * ~

Time runs out.

Time runs out, but you know, forever wouldn’t be long enough. Not to earn her forgiveness.

Forever wouldn’t be long enough to forgive yourself.

~ * ~

Somehow, you expect the knife at your throat.

Maybe you’ve been waiting since the first moment you saw her, for her to destroy you.

Maybe that’s why the choice at the mountain seemed so inevitable. Destroy her before she could do the same to you.

The metal presses harder into your delicate skin but draws no blood, and you realize only a half a second before she does that neither of you will be dying today.

_I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry._

The words are all you have to give her. The only comfort you know you can offer.

You don’t expect the way she crumples, almost into you. The way her face falls, the raw ache of her. The power of the moment, of seeing her so absolutely broken, absolutely open before you, it cuts you more than her words could, more than her anger and her hate and the feel of cool steel at your neck ever could.

This is what you have done, this is what you have made.

This beautiful, powerful woman.

Indra always said you had more to learn about the world, about leading. Maybe this is your final lesson, the last link in your armor.

The knowledge that will save everything you have built. Even yourself.

Even her.

Clarke has known all along, of course. The strength in weakness, the power in vulnerability.

She tried to teach you once.

You didn’t understand until this moment, until you watch her struggle against everything that burns and breaks inside of her.

She is stronger than you, you know that now. Just like you know you have to let her go, the price you pay for this final lesson.

There is strength in losing and in letting go.

There is strength in loving her.

There is love in walking away.

“Lexa, wait--”

~ * ~

She is golden.

She is a warrior.

She is a spirit, untouchable and all-seeing, as she glides toward you in the chamber hall.

No one breathes, no one says a word.

No one can do anything but watch her, and you feel the fires within you grow and grow.

You were right, you think, she was born for this. To command, to rule. To bring men and women to their knees in supplication, in prayer.

And when she kneels before you, when she bows her head to you, it’s like no honor you’ve ever received before.

She is Wanheda, the Commander of Death, and she kneels at your feet.

She kneels at your feet.

Your heart beats so heavily you fear it might burst from your chest, and you struggle, force your lungs to take in air.

Because Clarke kneels before you and looks up to meet your eyes and there’s something there--understanding and acceptance.

It’s a promise of something you dare not name, and in that moment you want to bend and caress her cheek, lift her to stand with you, at your side.

Equals.

And you realize that if you were not already lost to her, not already in love with her, this would be that  moment.

“Rise, Wanheda,” you command for all to hear.

“Rise, Clarke,” you whisper, only for her.

~ * ~

War is coming.

But war is always coming.

Love was lost.

But love has come again.

This time, you’ll fight for it.

This time, you’ll fight for her.

As Heda, yes, but as Lexa, too.

Two souls, one heart.

~ * ~

She expects you to betray her again.

She doubts you.

She doesn’t understand, not yet, not entirely.

She’s yours now, one of your people.

You’ll never have to choose again, not between your head and your heart.

Not between your people and your love.

There’s only one thing you can do.

It’s the easiest thing you’ve ever done, kneel before her.

You hold her gaze until the moment your knee touches the ground, and then you bow your head to her.  Because you are hers.

You are hers.

Every part of you, they’re all for her.

_I swear fealty to you, Clarke kom Skaikru._

You are hers to command, just as she is yours.

_I vow to treat your needs as my own._

Your heart, your body, your very soul.

_And your people as my people._

You are one.

You are one.

You are one.

~ * ~

She holds out her hand and you can breathe.

Because she knows.

Because she understands.

Death and her commander, nothing can stand in your way now.


End file.
